


anchor

by exhaustedwerewolf



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: (i.e. a very vague reference to the blood magic ritual), Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Blood and Injury, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Concussions, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Kissing, Loss of Powers, M/M, One Shot, Panic Attacks, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition Quest - Here Lies the Abyss, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, disturbing imagery, like excessive kissing lmao don't look at me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:53:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26392957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exhaustedwerewolf/pseuds/exhaustedwerewolf
Summary: When Dorian takes a blow to the head during battle, the results are unexpectedly drastic. Lucan is at his side to help him through the consequences.
Relationships: Dorian Pavus/Male Trevelyan, Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus, Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus, Male Rogue Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus
Kudos: 34





	anchor

**Author's Note:**

> The title for this fic is very much inspired by Bastille's song [The Anchor](https://open.spotify.com/track/0qwpBiu4uhW9hiQ6P4NePz?si=bPziy3waQXW7VI8mguz4WA) which I highly recommend to anyone who ships their Inquisitor with just about anybody! 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this fic, and thanks for reading!

Something is wrong. Dorian is conscious of nothing, and then only of that, only of the ache of the wrongness deep in his chest. It’s a void where his heart should be, even as he gasps himself awake, even before he can form coherent thought. He pushes himself up onto his elbows, retching a little at the aftertaste of stale elfroot and iron, stifles a groan. Distantly, he can hear Lucan’s low voice, feel the sun on his face, but his senses are dull, muted in comparison to the knowledge that something is viscerally, spine-crawlingly wrong.

“Dorian-! Please- Don’t try to move too much-”

Dorian can barely recognise his own name. He tries to wave Lucan off, to cast his eyes about the clearing, but his vision is blurred with breathless tears, his head throbs. In the dirt, his fingers grope uselessly as if he’s looking for- he doesn’t know what. He’s lost something? His gaze snags on the crumpled form of a Red Templar. Dead, bloodied mouth still agape, like a gash. He remembers then- the vicious strike to his head with the hilt of her sword, fireworks behind his eyes, a heartbeat of the fall- and then grey absence. The blade lies in the grass, inches from her splayed fingers. She could only have died moments ago- the glow is still seeping out of the lyrium that veins her skin, like slowly cooling magma. Two arrows sprout, thorn-like, from her throat. He slumps back and there’s a brief lapse, a moment of nothing at all.

“ _Dorian_ ,” Lucan is saying, voice hitching. Suddenly, he’s lying in Lucan’s arms, Lucan’s hands braced against Dorian’s lower back to keep him upright. “Please- Please talk to me, love.” Dorian searches his blood speckled face, but he doesn’t look wounded- this realisation comes with some vague relief, but _no_ , something is still amiss. It’s like an instinct he can’t understand, some primal voice he can’t translate, he needs to _think-_ something is _missing_ , something important. He closes his eyes, briefly, but it only makes the mounting dizziness worse- he squints then open again with a grimace. Nausea thick and heavy on his tongue, he barely manages to gasp out;

“I- Something’s- wrong.” The effort of speaking makes him wince- he struggles to sit up again.

_Something is so very, very wrong._

“You might be- I think you have a concussion,” Lucan says, and his hands are firm and steady, but even with his own head listing a little, Dorian can’t miss the shake in his voice. “We need to- We can’t stay here. If you lean on me, can you stand?”

 _Probably not,_ Dorian thinks as he swallows back the sickness climbing in his throat and forces a nod. Lucan carefully helps him to his feet, with Dorian grasping tightly at his arms. When he’s upright, he lets go experimentally- dizziness slams into him at once and he sways sideways; only saved from falling again when Lucan catches hold of his waist to steady him.

“Lucan-” Dorian tries again, voice coming out hollow and strange. Talking seems to make it worse- he shuts his eyes again against the vertigo, his grasp on Lucan tightening, but Lucan interrupts.

“Wait-” His voice is low and when Dorian lifts his gaze to him, he’s staring off into the treeline. Barely has he spoken before there’s a crackle in the undergrowth, some metres off to their right. Dorian drags in a breath so sharp it’s painful, as Lucan turns in the direction of the sound, drawing his bow and knocking an arrow in one smooth movement. He takes a protective step in front of Dorian.

“Stay behind me.” He says, low and quiet, tossing a concerned glance back over his shoulder. Dorian is still clinging to his upper arm.

“I can-” Dorian begins, but as he raises his free hand, the knowledge finally seizes him, sudden and icy as a _Winter’s Grasp._

His magic… isn’t there.

The pain of the absence within him is all encompassing for a moment.

The flames that live under his skin are so fundamentally a part of him he had never really known them to be alight until they were so suddenly and unceremoniously doused, but now they are undoubtedly _gone_. It’s incomprehensible, unthinkable- it’s _wrong,_ sickeningly, painfully wrong. As if his lungs have given out and he is somehow alive to feel every moment of their awful stillness, to hear the terrible silence his own breaths should fill.

It’s been some time since Dorian has been genuinely afraid, but in that moment, the quiet coldness of his own body, his own soul- it terrifies him.

“ _Kaffas_.” He chokes, pitching forwards- Lucan quickly steps backwards, catching him so that he falls into his shoulder. Dorian recovers his balance in time to glimpse Lucan’ fearful backward glance as the Red Templars appear wreathed in a sickly scarlet glow. At least a dozen of them emerge from the foliage, swords raised, eyes empty. Lyrium crystals pierce their skin like broken shards of bloodied bone.

There’s a thud as Lucan’s bow hits the ground.

“What are you-?!” Dorian begins- as the Templars are rushing towards them, armour thunderous- as Lucan is tearing the glove from his hand.

“Close your eyes!” He shouts, and then he plunges the Anchor skyward.

Even through closed eyelids, the blaze of light turns Dorian’s vision searingly white. The noise of it is immense- like tonnes of roiling ocean-water crashing down around them, and as the strange music and weightlessness of the Fade washes over them, gravity and time seem to vanish like smoke, leaving him floundering, untethered but for his grip on Lucan’s shoulder.

When at last it stops, and he blinks his eyes open, the first thing he sees is his grip on Lucan’s shoulder, white-knuckled. It takes him a few breathless gasps for the memory of when and where he is to return to him. As the ringing in his ears fades, he hears nothing but his and Lucan’s breathing- both in ragged gasps. Around them, the forest is completely silent.

“Amatus?” He asks. Lucan sways, and then it’s all Dorian can do to fall with him as the Herald crashes painfully to his hands and knees, jolting his bones.

“Lucan.” Dorian urges, still panting, still clinging to him; the Inquisitor shakes his head. His Marked hand is curled to his chest, still crackling with strange electricity.

“I’m alright. I’ll be alright.” He flinches as the Mark pulsates with light, his breath stuttering. “Maker, I hate... doing that...” When the glow begins to fade, he shifts into a kneeling position, and turns to face Dorian, reaching out with his gloved hand to gently cup his cheek. “Are you hurt?”

His fears for Lucan abated, Dorian exhales a choked breath, becomes aware that he’s trembling.

“No.” Dorian answers, but it comes out like a lie- the hurt cracks his voice like a fissure spreading across ice, and he amends. “Yes. _I-_ ”

He reaches up to catch Lucan’s hand in his, desperate to feel the warmth of it- the absence within him is so eerily cold and the chill only seems to be seeping outwards, like the crawling rot of frostbite. Unbidden, the memory of the touch of Lucan’s skin when they brought him in from the blizzard after Haven crystallises in his mind, corpse-cold- and he has the horrible conviction that now he knows what that must have felt like firsthand.

“Lucan, it’s- _gone_ , I.... can’t feel it.” He’s aware of his eyes welling with frightened tears, but he’s beyond shame, beyond anything but paralysing fear at the emptiness within, the stillness- this is _death,_ plain and simple. This is what it feels like to die.

“What’s gone?” Lucan says urgently, “Dorian, please-” Just as Dorian chokes out;

“My magic,” He gulps. “I can’t- I can’t feel it-” Terror flashes across Lucan’s face, and Dorian cuts himself off with a panicked gasp, trying to drag in air, but it’s as if there’s no air to breathe, his lungs as awfully empty as the rest of him.

“Dorian,” Lucan’s speaking, but his chest is caving in- he can’t breathe past the crushing agony in his chest. “Dorian, you need to breathe, love.”

But he can’t respond- all he can do is clutch at Lucan, trying to pull him closer even as he wraps his arms around him.

“ _Please_.” He doesn’t even know what he’s asking for- some part of him understands that he’s panicking, in the same way he’s seen Lucan shatter in front of him only to have to piece himself back together a thousand times over, but the agonising airlessness is too encompassing for him to believe that it can possibly ever be over-

“I have you, love. I have you.” Lucan is saying, over and over. There’s a gentle hand in his hair, but it’s confusingly distant, like touch from the far side of the Veil.

At some point, the others must find them. He remembers Cassandra’s voice, sharp with concern, Sera’s boots in the grass still aglow with Fade-green embers. Then, darkness encroaches on the corners of his vision, and he must pass out, because for a shallow inhale he is being carried in Lucan’s arms, and he glimpses sunlight through the canopy of trees.

“I’ll…” Lucan trails off, slipping a tinderbox from his pocket.

There’s no moment where Dorian lifts his fingers toward the candles in his tent, no instant in which he forgets. He feels it, and every second it seems only to grow, like ice slowly swelling within his marrow, until his bones splinter. Dorian sits woodenly down on his bedroll, not looking up as Lucan moves quietly and carefully around the tent, setting each wick and stick of incense aglow with the flame of the first candle. It’s something, the amber flicker of firelight against the canvas, but there’s a different quality to the flame, a lack of lustre, and this subtle dimness makes them almost worse than complete darkness. The fire he summoned himself warmed him on the inside too, but what little heat these candles offer is lifeless, meaningless signals on his skin.

He’s only vaguely aware when Lucan settles a blanket around his shoulders and kneels next to him.

“Here.” He whispers, and presses a vial into his hand. “It- might help.” Dorian doesn’t even ask what it is, just uncorks it obediently and gulps it down. Shuddering at the familiar sharpness, he realises distantly that it must be lyrium. He wipes his mouth and passes it back to Lucan, who takes it and tucks it away before gently taking his hand.

Neither of them speak. At some point, Dorian starts to cry again, this time silently, which some small part of him is aware of enough to be confused by- the panic is gone, now, there’s just the painful _nothing_ , a hole gradually yawning wider, but he allows Lucan to hold him as he observes his body convulse with the sobs, notes the eerie coldness of the tears on his cheeks.

Eventually, Lucan coaxes him into trying to sleep. Dorian cannot imagine sleeping, but formulating some protest would be worse, so he merely nods. When Lucan sets out a nightshirt for him he changes into it without a word, joins Lucan on the bedroll, allows himself to be taken into his arms. Still, the nothingness spreads like a multiplying mass of maggots, and as he stares out into the dark he can imagine every fibre of himself being slowly eaten away.

When at last he does sleep it’s fitfully, and his dreams twist with his memories; his father’s face lit crimson by the ribbons of blood coiling around him, the ache of the Fade demon’s voice at the back of his mind, the echo of his own desperate calls snatched away by the raging blizzard, the fall through the Veil and the eternity in which Lucan does not appear behind them in the Rift.

And then he doesn’t dream at all.

Dorian’s first act the next morning is- after blinking his dry eyes open, adjusting slowly to the yellow light and the trembling silhouettes of the branches it casts on the canvas- to wince, and try to pull the blankets up over his head. His head is absolutely pounding, his mouth sharply and painfully dry. Raking his fingers down his face, he has no idea why he feels so completely wrecked, but his mind wanders to the lingering dust of his dreams- there had been something _important_...

“Dorian, love?”

He grumbles incoherently in response, burrowing closer to Lucan- and then the thought comes to him- he’d _dreamt-_ when he’d feared he wouldn’t dream at all, _because-_ He sits abruptly, kicking away the tangle of blankets- Lucan is already propped up beside him, tired eyes intent on him.

“It’s there.” Dorian says raggedly, and he can feel it, thank the Maker, _he can feel it,_ as if his veins had been frozen, but now the blood had thawed and flowed once again, like spring ice-melt through the labyrinthine tributaries of his body- he holds out his hand in front of his heart.

A flame roars to life in his palm.

Lucan slams into him immediately, pulling him into a firm embrace.

“Amatus-!” He exclaims, half laugh, half gasp as the air is knocked out of him; he barely has the time to smother the flame and prevent himself from lighting the Herald of Andraste on fire- now wouldn’t _that_ be ironic, he thinks, and hides his grin in Lucan’s shoulder.

“Andraste,” Lucan laughs, hysterical with relief, and then sobs; “Oh Maker, _Dorian_.” He kisses him and kisses him, on both cheeks and trailing down his neck- Dorian feels himself melt into the hug as he wraps his arms around Lucan, as the tension he’d been holding softens at last.

“Come now,” Dorian tuts, but it’s unconvincing- his voice is still shaky with his own relief. He cards his fingers through Lucan’s hair fondly. “If anyone gets to cry, I think it should rightfully be me.” Lucan pulls back with a sniff.

“Sorry.” He says thickly, wiping at his tears with the heel of his hand. “I’m just so happy-” He lets out a sigh, “You’re alright.” Dorian smiles, and leans in to press a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“You really were worried about me, weren’t you?” With a smirk and a quirk of an eyebrow, he leans back. “Take care, or people might start to think you actually _like_ me, Maker forbid.” He’s deliberately trying to embarrass him into playing it off- an old habit, but one he hasn’t quite shaken. But it’s Lucan, so of course, he just nods, eyes shining with earnesty as he quietly says;

“I was terrified.” He takes his hands gently and presses a kiss to Dorian’s knuckles, and then holds his fingers against his cheek, taking a deep, unsteady breath as if to drink his presence in. “Maker, I love you.”

Something sticks in Dorian’s throat, with Lucan looking at him with that intense loyalty of his, fingers entwined in one hand, the other lingering on his jaw, his touch reverent.

“ _Amatus,_ ” Lucan whispers, like he’s testing the weight of the word in his mouth. “I love you. I don’t care who knows it.”

Dorian’s magic thrills through him, and he can’t suppress his smile.

“I- I know,” He says, and leans his face into Lucan’s hand to kiss it in return. “I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> As always find me [@exhaustedewerwolf](https://exhaustedwerewolf.tumblr.com/) on tumblr; my askbox is always open for requests, or if you just want to chat. Thank you again for reading!
> 
> Also, this is a prompt fill for [@badthingshappenbingo](https://badthingshappenbingo.tumblr.com/) \- 'concussion'!


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